I’m a cheapskate—I rented a haunted house. The first night I moved in, the faucet turned itself on. I yelled at the empty air, “Are you gonna pay the water bill?!” The water stopped instantly. I thought that was just the beginning… But the next day, I found a lavish breakfast waiting on my dining table. And later, this female ghost asked me to help her get revenge. Avocado scrambled eggs, pan-seared shrimp with tomato sauce, buttered sautéed spinach, plus a bowl of creamy mushroom soup. Perfect in color, aroma, and taste. As someone who lived on pizza delivery, my mouth watered on the spot. Hunger conquered fear. I tentatively picked up a fork and took a bite of the avocado eggs. Delicious. So delicious I almost swallowed my tongue. I devoured everything on the table like a hurricane, not leaving even a drop of soup. Full and satisfied, I rubbed my round belly and burped. I praised the empty air sincerely, “Great cooking. Keep it up tomorrow.” Then I went to work. That evening when I got home and opened the door, the aroma of food hit me. Three dishes and a soup were on the table again. Red wine braised beef ribs, black pepper tofu stew, garlic broccoli, and vegetable meatball soup. Shamelessly, I polished it all off again. After freeloading for three days straight, I started feeling a bit guilty. This “female ghost” not only had a good temper but was also great at managing a household. I dug out a pink sticky note from the drawer and wrote in bold black ink: “Hi, what should I call you? I feel bad always eating your food.” After writing, I placed the note neatly in the center of the dining table. The next morning, breakfast was on the table as usual. Oatmeal porridge, a small dish of pickled cucumbers, and two freshly baked beef pies. Next to my sticky note was an identical one. Written in very beautiful handwriting. “Evelyn Hartley.” The name sounded nice. After finishing breakfast, I left another note: “Evelyn, with your cooking skills, it’s a shame you’re not a food blogger.” Just making conversation. When I came home that evening, a hearty dinner was on the table. Below my note was a new reply: “What’s a food blogger?” I burst out laughing. She must have been dead for quite a while. Suddenly, an idea came to me—a very bold idea. I spread out the paper and wrote a shopping list. Australian lobster, Kobe beef, black truffles, caviar. I wrote down every expensive ingredient I’d ever heard of but could never afford. After writing, I guiltily glanced around. The air was completely silent. I pressed the list in the middle of the table and went to bed with a strange sense of anticipation. The next day, the first thing I did when I woke up was rush to the dining room. The table was completely empty. Forget lobster and beef—there wasn’t even a hair. I felt a bit disappointed. I guess my demands were too excessive and scared her away. I sighed and was about to cook some oatmeal myself in the kitchen. When I turned around, I saw a note pressed on the table. It was in Evelyn’s familiar handwriting, but this time the strokes seemed a bit cold. “Wasteful.” I stood there stunned, then couldn’t help but laugh out loud. This ghost not only could cook but was also a thrifty, good girl. I like that. I immediately picked up my pen to reply: “Evelyn, I was wrong. I was just joking. From now on we’ll eat home-cooked meals. I’ll never mention that nonsense again.” My apology was very sincere. Sure enough, when I came home that evening, three dishes and a soup appeared on the table again. Although they were all cheap home-cooked dishes, I ate more contentedly than ever before. On the weekend, I was sprawled on the couch playing video games when the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole and saw my coworker, Marcus Quinn. What was he doing here?
Marcus and I didn’t exactly get along. Marcus came from money. At the company, he looked down on everyone, especially people like me who’d fight over a few dollars in coupons. I opened the door. Marcus waved his hand in front of his nose with a disgusted expression, standing at the doorway. “Preston, you actually live in this dump? It’s like a trash heap.” His eyes swept over my one-bedroom apartment, full of contempt. “I heard you got this place dirt cheap. Is there something wrong with it?” I said flatly, “It’s fine. Spacious, bright, friendly neighbors.” Marcus laughed exaggeratedly. “Neighbors? Do you dare go out at night in this building? I heard someone died here.” He just came to laugh at my misfortune. I couldn’t be bothered with him and turned to close the door. But Marcus squeezed his way inside. “Hey, don’t be so quick to kick me out. I came here out of kindness to check on you. What’s with that attitude?” He walked around the place uninvited, wrinkling his nose like he was inspecting a slum. “So clean? Did you hire a cleaning service? Doesn’t seem like your style.” He walked to the table and suddenly stopped, pointing at a vase in the corner. “You even have an antique decoration? Is this real or fake?” My heart tightened. “Just a regular decoration.” It was here when I moved in. Marcus curled his lip and reached out to grab it. “Let me take a look.” “Don’t touch it!” I tried to stop him. But it was too late. Marcus’s hand touched the vase, and as if he didn’t hold it properly, the vase fell straight toward the floor. My heart jumped to my throat. Just as the vase was about to make intimate contact with the floor, it stopped. It just floated in mid-air, less than a centimeter from the ground. Time seemed to freeze. Marcus’s smile froze on his face, his eyes wide as saucers. The next second, the vase wobbled up and flew back, landing steadily on the corner of the table, completely undamaged. The room was deathly silent. Marcus’s face turned from red to white, then from white to green. He pointed at the vase with a trembling finger. “It… it…” He stuttered “it” for a long time without forming a complete sentence. Suddenly, he let out a short, strange cry and ran outside. Stumbling and scrambling, not looking back. I watched his pathetic retreat, then looked at the vase on the table and sighed. “Evelyn, I’ve told you so many times—keep a low profile.” I scolded the empty air. “If that vase broke, how expensive would it be? Would you pay for it?” The air remained completely still. I didn’t expect her to answer anyway. That night, lying in bed, I proactively chatted with Evelyn for the first time. I told her about the annoying things at work, about how obnoxious Marcus was today. I said how much I wanted to make good money, buy my own place, and stop having to look at people’s faces. As I talked, I fell asleep. The next day, I woke up freezing. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped to freezing. I pulled the blanket tight but still shivered from the cold. I opened my phone and saw a text from the electric company. This month’s electricity bill: three thousand eight hundred dollars. I stared at that number for a full minute. Thirty-eight hundred?! How could my electricity usage possibly be that high? Then I suddenly remembered something. The faucet turning on by itself, the TV lighting up in the middle of the night, and those damned meals that appeared on time every day! Did these paranormal phenomena also consume electricity? A surge of anger shot straight to the top of my head. I leaped out of bed, grabbed my phone, and roared at the empty room: “Evelyn! Come out here!” “What’s with this electric bill? Thirty-eight hundred! Why don’t you just rob me!” “You’re paying this bill!” My voice echoed in the small room, filled with uncontrollable anger. The lights in the room started flickering wildly, on and off. A chill shot up from the soles of my feet, even colder than the low temperature before. I saw the shadow in the corner of the wall begin to wriggle and gather unnaturally. A silhouette darker than the darkness itself slowly peeled away from the shadow. Her figure was slender, but her entire body was shrouded in an indistinct black mist. I couldn’t feel any wind, but it felt like all the air in the room had been sucked out. A cold, emotionless voice—not through my ears but directly in my head—spoke. “Say that again.”
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